When Ariadne's text had come through, Dionysus had been leaning into the expansive bedroom mirror over their vanity and applying a dramatic smoky eye. He was trying to mimic Theda Bara tonight and it was making him feel nostalgic, both for the 1920s and for Theda herself. Despite her image, Theda had never enjoyed attending the Hollywood parties that Dionysus himself couldn't be kept away from. But her image on screen- how intoxicating film had still felt then!- had made him want to follow her around every event and pour wine into her until she became that femme fatale that moved around in silver and grey, larger than life. A few times he almost succeeded and wanted to take her home to love forever. But in the end she'd retired young to go live on a farm with her husband, but Dionysus couldn't forget those eyes. He looked in the mirror now and pouted his lips. He'd done plenty of femme fataling himself.
Maybe there would be a little more of it tonight.
When Ariadne called out to him upon arriving home, Dionysus appeared at the top of the staircase to look down at her and her new friend. "My queen comes home," he said, and then looked more at the man beside her. Immortal, but unfamiliar. And not Greek. Dionysus was an Olympian: he recognized the feel of Greeks.
He started slowly down the stairs, his feet bare and his toenails painted red, his outfit a leopard-print mini skirt and a sheer black blouse, open in a deep V (as though the sheerness left anything to hide.)
In front of Much he stopped and looked at him with undisguised interest. "You have eyes like the deep dark of a forest night."